Echoes of our Time

N Y W RI TERS C OAL ITI ON PRE SS

ECHOES OF OUR TIME W RITING

FROM THE 14 TH

S TREET Y

EDITED BY ANDREA BOZZO & ELENA SCHWOLSKY

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Echoes of our Time Writing From The 14th Street Y

NY Writers Coalition Press WINTER 2017

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Copyright © 2017 NY Writers Coalition, Inc.

ISBN: 978-0-9964012-8-9 Library of Congress Control Number: 2016960562

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

Editor: Andrea Bozzo, Elena Schwolsky Layout: Daisy Flores Cover Image: Suzanne Lapka Interior Images: Suzanne Lapka, Doris Weil, Barbara Zapson Echoes of our Time is a collection of writing and art from NY Writers Coalition’s workshops at the 14th Street Y for seniors.

NY Writers Coalition Press, Inc. 80 Hanson Place, Suite 604 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org

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Contents Introduction By Andrea Bozzo & Elena Schwolsky

Original Writing

Myra K. Baum

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Mary Blas

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John Cappelletti

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Antoinette Carone

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Elizabeth Haak

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Eileen D. Kelly

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Cecile Wertheim Kramer

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Karen Kraskow

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Suzanne Lapka

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Sandy Lee Lofaso

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Judith Lukin

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Yasuko Nagasawa

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Emma Phojanakong

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Ann Quintano

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Joan Reese

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Bob Rosen

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Sandy Santora

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Jane Scharfman

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Lynne Stolper

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J.P. SwartelĂŠ-Wood

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Doris Weil

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Beatrice Wyetzner

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Allan Yashin

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Barbara Zapson

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Acknowledgements

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About NY Writers Coalition Inc.

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Introduction Part I

A voice is a powerful tool. To help someone find their voice is an empowering act. The New York Writer’s Coalition routinely provides writing workshops to underserved populations to provide forums where these communities can discover and develop their unique voices.

Each week, a dedicated group of seniors gather together in a small room on the second floor of the 14th St Y to express themselves in such a writing workshop. It all begins with one writing prompt and results in a number of genres written from many different points of view. The outcomes are often surprising, and always powerful. These writers draw on their life experiences, knowledge and wisdom to create their compositions. Among them, they have lived a combined total of well over 500 years. They share their work by reading aloud, and support each other’s efforts with positive feedback. As such, they are continually growing as writers and artists.

The plays, poems and short stories that appear in this volume are the result of this special process. They are rich in imagination and assured in voice. The topics are farranging—from politics to travel to urban legends and beyond. I hope that you enjoy reading them as much as these writers have enjoyed creating them.

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I want to thank the writers for all their hard work in creating this book. And I especially want to thank them for allowing me to participate each week in their singular creative process.

Andrea Bozzo Workshop Leader, 14th St Y Monday Workshop

Winter 2017

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Introduction Part II

Chairs scrape across the floor as we settle ourselves around large folding tables in Room 201. We look around to see who’s here and who is missing. We learn who is traveling, who is sick, who is recovering from an operation. When someone returns after some time away we greet them warmly like the old and good friends they are. When new people join, we welcome them at our table.

And then there is the magical moment just before we write—the prompt—an invitation to memory and imagination, the shifting in our seats, the opening of notebooks, the putting of pen or pencil to paper—and we are off: chasing a story, creating a character, capturing a conversation, railing against injustice, rhyming, going deep or skimming the surface. We seal ourselves off from the noise of sirens on the street or toddlers passing by in the hallway.

Some finish early and sit waiting quietly. Others keep writing long after the group has reconvened.

And then we listen…leaning in to catch every word…eager to welcome this newborn writing into the world. We share with the writers around the table what we loved, what fascinated us, what made us sad or tickled our funny bone…there is much laughter, occasionally tears.

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It is from this simple, elegant, evocative process that these stories and poems have been born. Thanks to the Thursday writers for sharing their words and creative spirit with me and each other each week in Room 201.

Elena Schwolsky Workshop Leader, 14th St Y Thursday Workshop

Winter 2017

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Let Go Myra K. Baum

Let go It’s that Time of year When leaves Let go Fluttering to the ground After letting go Of their green The time of year When Yom Kippur says Forgive Let go Of your pain and suffering Of heartaches an sadness Let go Of long ago disputes Of remnants of long ago disputes Instigated by others Or By your word or action Let go The season says Let Go Life says Let go Time here Is always too short LET GO

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I Wa s B r u n e t t e , N o w I A m G r ay Mary Blas

I used to be a brunette. Now I am completely gray. Getting to this stage was a process —or many processes, if you get my drift.

I once found a greeting card that described five stages of hair color.

The last stage—after having tinted, dyed, frosted, and gone gray— was blond. At that time—almost forty years ago, this was probably true for most women. The claim was supported when at my cousin’s wedding in 1978, I looked around to discover a sea of blond headed women-of-a-certain-age populating the Leonard’s of Great Neck catering hall. Could not find a single gray head in the bunch! But that was then—before a large number of women appreciated their silver tresses enough to go au naturel.

Now, as I move about the city I notice more and more of my sisters who are embracing their grayness—even enhancing it with streaks of blue or green or purple. I have all I can do to contain myself from running up to them to give an enthusiastic hi-five! I believe that we are the forerunners of a movement.

Granted—my grayness can be seen as an “ager” by some, but that I believe, is the result of years of conditioning (pardon the pun). I am confident that if enough women (and men for that matter) move into that final stage of hair color with confidence, we can show the world that gray is glorious and eventually the general populace will look beyond our hair color and actually see our faces—some unlined, some wrinkled, some sallow, others rosy, and some belonging to that special group of grays who have been selected by Mother Nature to enter the gray stage early in their lives.

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So I say—sisters (and brothers) unite! Give way to your gray! Let nature take its course. Take the leap—and do nothing! Remember, gray is glamorous.

And, it’s free.

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Photo by Suzanne Lapka

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Where I’m From Mary Blas

I am from St. Francis’ Hospital in the South Bronx Where I left the buoyancy of my mother’s womb And where seven years later, I left my defunct tonsils.

I am from apartment 1A—four small rooms and a peeling bathroom wall.

And from a downed orange creamsicle lying on the pavement Which my shameless four-year old fingers poked To Mrs. O’Malley’s shouts of— “That’s disgusting!”

I am from The Hook Man, Who moved garbage pails from the cellar to the sidewalk, Then waved his metal talons in mock chase As we scattered up the block in feigned terror.

I am from my father’s stories of The Other Side Where food was scarce and children who were starving Would clamor for my rejected supper crusts— Ungrateful American child! I couldn’t appreciate real hunger.

I am from Gerardo and Francesca, Anunzia and Simone, Maria Felicia and Vito— Brave souls who crossed the Atlantic and back, Seeking to fulfill old dreams Then, abandoning those, crossed again to reinvent new ones.

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I am from sixteen years of nuns and priests, The Baltimore Catechism, communion, mortal sin, venial sin, original sin, Fish on Friday, Mass on Sunday, rosaries, penance, novenas, And a hundred thousand dos and don’ts—mostly don’ts.

I am from Southern Italian hill towns and Adriatic ports, From shepherds, scholars, icemen, and builders Factory workers and homemakers, From sacrifice and celebration and journeys.

But mostly, I am from hope—ever enduring hope.

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W h at J e s u s W o u l d D e f i n i t e ly N o t D o : A S h o r t P l ay o n t h e 2 0 1 6 Elections John Cappelletti Since most of the 2016 presidential candidates say they are devout Christians, they should ask themselves, “What would Jesus do?” before making speeches and setting policy. Unfortunately, they haven’t done that.

The setting is a mountaintop near Jerusalem, B. C. Characters: Jesus…………………….looks just as you have seen him in paintings Peter…………………….a tall, heavy set man with a beard Synopsis: Jesus, not the Jesus you know and love but one based on the speeches of the current presidential candidates, prepares to give a speech to the multitudes on a mountaintop. His aim is to make money. He is also running for political office as King of the Jews so he discusses political strategy with his campaign chief, Peter.

JESUS: Look! What a multitude! We should do really well today.

PETER: I bet we rake in a multitude of shekels from these suckers.

We’re getting five shekels a head for this speech.

JESUS: My speeches are worth it. They’re great, like me. Did you bring the loaves and fishes?

PETER: Did I ever! Mary Magdalene got a good deal on stale bread.

Also, she got buckets of fish that’ve seen better days.

JESUS: Do they smell badly?

PETER: Yes, but not to worry. We cut the smell with spices so they should sell well at 2 shekels a pop.

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JESUS: Great, Pete. But keep an eye on Magdalene. She might eat all the bread and fish. Have you seen how fat she’s getting? She must be eating like a pig. And you know how I hate fat women! They are disgusting, especially former beauty queens and prostitutes.

PETER: You got it! But back to our business. We’ll get another shekel for our special homemade wine we trumped up by labeling it “Gabriel’s Trumpet!”

JESUS: You mean, the watered-down wine I made at that wedding?

PETER: Yes, that meek donkey piss. It’ll take several wineskins for them to even get a buzz. So we should do well with the wine.

JESUS: You know, that wine miracle just gave me an idea for a publicity stunt. Let’s spread the good news that the people here were hungry but since we didn’t have any food, I saved the day. I took a few loaves and fishes and performed a miracle.

PETER: What’s the miracle?

JESUS: I filled the bellies of the multitude with just a few loaves and fishes.

PETER: How’d you do that?

JESUS: I didn’t.

PETER: I don‘t get it.

JESUS: We sell them the bread and fish Magdalene got, but tell them that I just created the food out of thin air.

PETER: Great! That should get us quite a few votes. I’ll tell our writers to get on it. They like to play up that miracle stuff. Luckily, people will believe anything candidates say.

JESUS: And you know what else will get us a lotta votes?

PETER: “Let’s Make Jerusalem Great Again” on a red skullcap?

JESUS: Well, that was a good idea, but I was thinking of a wall.

PETER: A wall?

JESUS: Yes, a wall to keep out those Palestinians who come to Jerusalem illegally. They’re a bunch of rapists, winos and spongers.

And these spongers want to hear my speeches without paying for them. They ignore me when I yell at them, “Get out, get out!” Maybe we should pay some Romans to rough them up. These spongers definitely won’t be contributing any shekels to this campaign.

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PETER: Speaking of the campaign, the polls say you are a shoe-in to win the election for King of the Jews.

JESUS: That polling was a good idea. Was that your idea, Peter?

PETER: No, it was…uh, well, yes, actually, it was my idea.

JESUS: Good thinking, Peter. You are the rock, upon whom I will build my administration.

PETER: And another idea of mine was my spin on how you were born to a poor family, a little carpenter, but with big hands, who worked for a low minimum wage. The poor can identify with that and there are 99% more poor citizens than rich ones. That’s a helluva lotta votes!

JESUS: Now we must find a way to get the rich citizens to support my campaign also. They may be only 1% of the voters but they’ve got 99% of the gelt. So we must get those rich Citizens United behind us.

They’ll make huge contributions.

PETER: I know: Just tell them if they support you with their silver here on earth, you’ll guarantee that they’ll inherit the kingdom of heaven.

Tell them it will be easier for them to enter the kingdom of heaven because they’ve got the shekels to buy a camel to take them there.

JESUS: And they also have the gelt to build my wall to keep out those Palestinians and anyone else who disagrees with me.

PETER: You know, the rich don’t like government spongers either so I’ll bet they’ll gladly split for your wall.

JESUS: Let’s tell them if they back me, then when I’m King, I’ll name a nearby street after them, “The Builders of Wall Street”.

PETER: I’ll put Judas on it. He’ll fit right in with that crowd. He’s always looking for ways to put some silver in his pocket. You know, you could make speeches just for the rich. They’d pay you at least 225,000 shekels a speech.

JESUS: Holy Moly! But won’t the people think there’s a conflict of interest, my getting paid so much for these speeches?

PETER: Naw, they can’t even put two and two together. Besides, we won’t reveal the text of your speech to them.

JESUS: And if people can’t put two and two together, I could create a university to teach them math. We could sell seminars to them on how to be a success and buy their way into heaven.

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PETER: Christ, you’re the greatest! King of the Jews!

JESUS: Nix that. The Romans might not like the King reference. They might think I’m starting a revolution, a huge revolution. We don’t want to mess with the Romans. They have weapons. And they have a group so powerful that no one can get elected without their support.

PETER: You mean, the NWA? JESUS: Exactly, the National Weapons Association.

PETER: Naw, the Romans’ll go for it. Besides, they can only speak Latin so they’ll need a negotiator. And who’s the best negotiator in town?

The soon-to-be-elected King of the Jews, that’s who. Also, we could seal the deal by throwing a few shekels their way. The Romans like silver as much as we do. They’ll do whatever you say. If you tell them to genuflect to you, they’ll get down on their knees.

JESUS: But what if they’re honest?

PETER: Nobody’s honest these days. Besides, we could say we just want to render to Caesar the shekels that are Caesar’s and to God the shekels that are God’s.

JESUS: So Caesar gets his cut and we get God’s share.

PETER: Exactly! For it is said, God helps those who help themselves.

JESUS: So we’ll just have to help ourselves plenty! Hahaha.

(AS PETER and JESUS laugh, they walk towards the crowd.)

PETER: Give ‘em hell, Jesus! Or should I say “heaven”? Hahaha.

(Peter shouts to the CROWD who all wear red skullcaps) Let’s make Jerusalem great again!

(The CROWD cheers “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Some protesters are suckerpunched, pushed to the ground, kicked and dragged off. JESUS salutes the cheering crowd, raising his right arm.)

THE CROWD: (Raising right arms) Let’s make Jerusalem great again!

THE END

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The Memori es of Childhood Antoinette Carone

As I drift off to sleep I float into a hilly pasture. The air smells of pine, broom and something else – something bodily and perhaps slightly obscene. People are speaking in a language I don’t understand. I awake to listen and the dream is lost.

It was thirty years ago today that my mother died. I had been thinking of her all day. Had she lived she would now be one hundred years old.

Sometime during the last week of her life, she forgot English. She could speak only Italian and her dialect at that. Only my brother and I understood her, so we became her translators, telling the doctors what pained her, fulfilling her requests for forbidden foods which we covertly brought to her, but of which she never ate more than a bite.

She told us for the last time stories of her youth in the mezzogiorno.

Her family lived in a stucco house that lay on the edge of a wide pasture. They were land-rich, but money-poor. They raised sheep and sold the cheese made of their milk to the neighboring village. My mother’s brothers took turns staying in the fields at night to throw stones and any wolves that might wander down from the mountains and attempt to carry off one of the sheep. By the time my mother was a young woman, the wolves had been driven even farther south, but memories of ravaged flocks persisted and one or another of my uncles always passed a sleepless night.

Had this been my dream? Had I been re-living the life of the Old Country – a life that, after all, wasn’t mine? But I know my mother’s native language. Why couldn’t I understand it?

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The light coming into my bedroom changes from pale to bright. A young woman is in the fields next to the stucco house. She is picking beans. It is wartime. A mounted officer is watching her. She is watching him in return. She becomes aware that she has watched too long and bends over to resume picking. I see the swastika on his uniform as he urges his horse toward her. He bends forward and tries to lift her onto his horse. She slaps him. Realizing what she has done, she steps back horrified. But he is an officer and a gentleman. He apologizes – in German.

I see his face – this handsome German officer. Strong, slightly square jaw, high Eastern European cheekbones, light hair. Probably blond. I really can’t tell the color of his hair in the black and white photo.

Photo? Yes. I found the photo in the back of my mother’s jewelry drawer after she died. There was not a lot of jewelry – a string of pearls, a jet brooch, scatter pins of a snake and a snake charmer. The photo was in the back under the Mother’s Day cards my brother and I had made in elementary school. I was touched that she had kept them. The officer in the photo looks like my brother when he was in his twenties.

In 1943 my mother married an American, my father. It was shortly after the American invasion of Italy as the Allies marched north from Sicily. My brother Carl, or Carlo as she always called him, was born in Italy in 1944. My father marched northward and continued to fight.

After the War, he brought my mother and brother to New York where I was born in 1946.

I remember the photo. I had first seen it when I was about five years old.

“Is that my Uncle Vito?” I had asked. I knew about my uncle who had been killed in the war.

“No,” my mother answered. “He was a friend. He was killed too.”

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The Entrepre neur Antoinette Carone

Mario hated his job, but at the same time he was grateful to have it.

He was the attendant at the WC of the circumvesuviana train station at Avella. It was the second-to last station in a small town on the line that linked Avella to Naples, and his was a government job, which meant that he would have it for the rest of his life. He couldn’t be fired and he couldn’t move forward. All day Monday through Friday from 8 am until 4 pm Mario sat in the anteroom between the men’s and women’s toilets and collected fifty eurocents from anyone wanting to use the facilities.

The system had been in place since the nineteen-thirties when it was installed by the fascists. Since that time, attendants had been taking fifty eurocents (although in those days it was a thousand lire). After paying, the patrons were permitted to go through a turnstile which counted the number of people who went through. The clicks of the turnstile and the coins had to tally. No chance for the attendant to pocket a few extra cents. In the thirties, he or she would have been shot; nowadays he would be suspended while undergoing a lengthy defense. Finally the government would find that he couldn’t be fired for such an insignificant misdemeanor.

Mario wouldn’t have pocketed the few cents in any event. He, like a lot of other Italian men, had trained as an architect. He spent his time between trains when he was compelled to remain in front of the toilets designing and his evenings repairing and building for friends and friends of friends. He had an income the government didn’t know about. He was quasi tax-free.

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A lot of Italians contrive to be quasi tax-free, not making the connection to the diminished services provided by the government (although there many levels of fiscal irresponsibility within the government). Around June of each year, the train station’s supply of soap and toilet paper would run out. No more would be provided until January when the next year’s budget would go into effect. For more than six months Mario would be compelled to listen to complaints of angry patrons about the lack of carta igenica and sapone. He grew weary of apologizing and sympathizing.

Since he was also mechanically inclined, Mario liked to rummage through garbage dumps to find things to tinker with and repair. On one such excursion he found a coffee vending machine discarded by an office in Ravenna when the administrator had purchased an updated one. Mario’s machine, for sixty eurocents each, sold expresso, cappuccino, or hot chocolate. Sugar was free, but there was an extra button for this commodity.

Mario repaired the machine. Then he went to Spendimeglio (meaning “spend better” in English), a discount store that sells household products at very good prices. Mario stocked up on toilet paper, soap and hand cream. He rigged up the vending machine to sell a small stock of toilet paper for one euro and soap and hand cream for fifty eurocents each.

He set up the vending machine behind his table in the train station. In June when bathroom provisions ran out, Mario put a sign in front of the machine, indicating that they could be purchased here. Nobody cared. Patrons were in fact happy – they needed soap and toilet paper and the quality the machine offered was better than the standard issue. Mario gave these necessities to his colleagues for free.

Mario made sure to take his annual vacation in February while the government soap and toilet paper were still in abundant supply. He liked cold weather and could afford to go to Vermont in the US to ski.

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G r ima l d i’s Th a nksg iv ing Antoinette Carone

Grimaldi knew something interesting was afoot. There was much hustle and bustle in Anna’s kitchen. She and Salvatore were speaking loudly in strange words that Grimaldi was just beginning to understand, although when they spoke to him they said the familiar words that Jon had used. Grimaldi had twigged that when Anna talked about latte, she meant milk and that carne meant meat. When he heard these words no matter what the language, Grimaldi would come running to his bowl.

Grimaldi still missed his old home. He still grieved for Jon, although he loved Anna. The combined hubbub and melancholy drew Grimaldi into the kitchen, where he jumped up on the windowsill to sniff good smells and try to figure out what was going on. His thoughts drifted to the beings that had disappeared from his life. He knew that after Jon had vanished, Jon’s mate Lucy did not want him and had moved to a place called Naples, leaving Grimaldi with Anna and Salvatore. He would henceforth be Anna’s cat.

Years ago Jon had spent the autumn in Naples, looking at art and taking classes at the Accademia di belle arti. One day, returning from hiking the mule trails that wind upward from Amalfi, Jon had arrived in Naples and was making his way through the Circumvesuviana train station when he had spotted a mother cat in the dilapidated garden on the side of the passageway. She was nursing a number of kittens.

Kittens of all colors – black, tiger, calico, even a single Siamese. It was odd that this mother cat was nursing so publically. It occurred to Jon that she might be hoping that some passersby would adopt them, for they were big enough to be on their own. Jon had been tempted to

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take the Siamese, but did not because the difficulty of getting a cat back to the States would have been too great.

Later, when a friend had two Siamese kittens he wanted to “get rid of” Jon took them, much to Lucy’s dismay and over her objections.

They were regal; their coloring told of sand and sea and a distance that no human could ever transverse. He named one Grimaldi, for the ferry company that travels the seas surrounding Italy, and the other Grazia for the grace by which the kittens were saved from the killshelter.

Grimaldi had not forgotten his littermate, Grazia, who one day suddenly emanated this same deadly odor that rendered her unfamiliar to him. From the time he first smelled it, had Grimaldi kept her at a distance. Grazia crept into the basement where she hid behind the furnace. She had stayed there for two days until Jon crawled underneath the furnace and pulled her out, limp and dusty. He had wiped her off and laid her ever so gently in a box. He then had put the box into the car and drove off. He returned alone. Grimaldi did not like the way Grazia had changed and then vanished.

Before he vanished, Jon had seemed dispirited too, as if he were retreating behind his easel but Lucy did not notice. Only Grimaldi was aware of the sense of something coming to an end.

These events had happened a long time ago in the span of a cat’s life, yet they were still with Grimaldi. His recollections were soon, however, sidetracked by Anna who was unusually busy in the kitchen.

Interesting smells were floating all around. Grimaldi decided to take advantage of Anna’s good nature and plop himself down in the middle of the table to see what he could procure to eat. Anna didn’t mind.

She was glad of the company and happy to be in a place that did not relegate cats to outdoors where they were expected to hunt their own food. Her adopted culture condoned treating animals as sentient beings, which Anna knew they were. So, working around Grimaldi, Anna began her American Thanksgiving preparations. She was making pumpkin pie, another custom she had adopted.

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She offered Grimaldi crumbs of crust; she put a bit of condensed milk into his bowl. He happily consumed all, but when Anna opened the can of pumpkin, he went mad with delight. He meowed and rubbed her legs, nearly tripping her. “Pumpkin is for cows, not cats,� she told him.

When the pies were finished baking, Anna put them on the dining room table to cool. Grimaldi jumped on the table and tried to lick one.

Anna picked him up and carried him out of the room. Then she closed the door.

While Anna was relaxing, reading the Corriere della sera Grimaldi made his way to the door of the dining room. He jumped and grabbed hold of the door knob with his paws. As he dropped, the knob turned and the door opened a crack. Grimaldi pushed it open, jumped on the table and ate the center of one of the pumpkin pies, grateful that he had figured out a way to get in and grateful that Anna loved life too much to deny any creature a measure of enjoyment.

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A N i g h t at t h e M e t Elizabeth Haak

Grace and I missed the closing calls on the Metropolitan Museum’s loudspeaker because we were busy looking at the 17th century windowpanes of the Hart Room. Etched on the old glass were “William Beverly” and “T.G. Guymes”. Were they Colonial settlers? Or were these the names of modern-day museum visitors who felt compelled to leave their mark? A mystery. What was life like in the small log cabin with only a bed, fireplace, chair and table? The bed was big enough for my seven-year-old niece but too small for me.

When the loudspeaker’s closing announcements finally broke into my awareness, I grabbed her hand and we started downstairs towards the Great Hall. But at every room along the way, the lights ahead went off, making it hard to navigate. When we reached the Great Hall, the front doors were closed, the guards gone. We were locked in.

Grace jumped up and down with excitement. “I always wanted a sleepover at the Met!” “I’ll call 311. A guard will come back and let us out.” And I started fishing in my purse for my cell phone.

“No, don’t! Let’s stay, just for tonight!”

“But what will your parents say?”

“Don’t tell them! They won’t be back from vacation till next week.

It’s just for one night!”

I had to admit, it would be an adventure. I was curious, too. “I guess if we call your folks at the usual time tomorrow, it’ll be ok,” I said. “But we can’t trip any alarms. We don’t want the police to come.”

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“We’ll be careful. C’mon, let’s go to that living room with the long benches and window cushions.”

“Frank Lloyd Wright’s?” I asked.

“Yeah!”

Slowly, we made our way back in the dark. When we got to the sculpture room with its skylight and glass wall, light poured in from Central Park’s lamplights. We made our way easily along the cafe side to Frank’s living room.

“I’m hungry,” said Grace and she picked up a banana from the bowl on a side table.

“It’s probably fake.”

“No, it’s not,” and she began to peel it.

Just as I picked up a Clementine, we were blinded by the glare of a flashlight in our faces.

“Who goes there?” demanded a gruff male voice.

“I’m Louise. This is Grace. We’re not trying to steal anything.

Really. We just got locked in.”

“Oh, you too, huh?”

Slowly, the flashlight lowered.

I could see the outline of a large man in a big overcoat, open in front.

“Are you a night watchman?” I asked.

“Uh, well, no. I live here. I got locked in during July of 2014. But now, I suppose you two will spoil it all by telling on me. Bring in news photographers, writers, bloggers…”

“No, we won’t,” said Grace. “We won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Deal!” said the man. Grace raced across the room to him and they fist-bumped.

“I’m Harold,” said the man. “Pleased to meet you, Grace and Louise.”

We shook hands all around.

“So how do you live here? How do you eat?” I asked.

He smiled. “I go out during the day. I eat my main meal at the restaurant where I work. I’m a waiter. Then I come back before the museum closes. For supper, I eat fruit, or sometimes I sneak in leftovers from the restaurant. After my first week here, I replaced all

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the fake wooden fruit with the real thing. The curator thought the guards did it and vice versa. You just started on my supper, Grace.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Grace.

“No worries. There’s more bananas and some fresh grapes in the next room. And I bought the makings of s’mores on my way home today. We can toast ‘em over there in the Stair Hall.”

“This is so cool!” said Grace. They high-fived.

“C’mon, let’s go,” and he led the way with his flashlight.

The inglenook was a room designed to welcome guests with cushioned benches along both sides and a fireplace in the middle. On a cold wintry day like this one, guests would be seated immediately by a fire until the hostess came sweeping down the curved staircase.

We all stepped over the wire alarm into the room. Grace and I settled down side by side on the red cushioned benches on the stair side. We watched with amazement as Harold opened the lid of a bench on the opposite side of the room and pulled out an electric hot pot.

“Coffee? Tea? Cocoa?” he asked.

We opted for cocoa.

He pulled a big bottle of water from inside the bench, filled the hot pot and plugged it in. He switched on the gas log fire. The flames gave a lovely glow to the room and reflected off the stained glass window. From the deep inside pockets of his overcoat, Harold pulled chocolate bars, marshmallows and graham crackers.

“How do you manage to stay here without the guards finding you?” I asked.

“I got my hiding places. But I’m not telling you all my secrets right away. I’ll let you guess,” he smiled.

“Is there a secret passageway from the Boy King’s Tomb to Central Park?” asked Grace. “Like maybe you tunnel under the street and come out somewhere in the park.”

“Could be,” he said. “Maybe you’re warm,” and he singed a marshmallow on a long fork. “And maybe not.” He made a s’more and handed it to Grace.

“Thanks.” She chewed on it thoughtfully. “Or maybe you open one of the Egyptian mummy cases and hide in there, ” she suggested.

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“What, me, get next to a mummy? Are you crazy? Would you?”

“Well, no, I guess not,” said Grace. “But you’ll have to take us out with you in the morning, so you might as well tell us now.”

“Not necessarily. There’s more than one way out. You’ll go your way in the morning and I’ll go mine.”

“Aw, c’mon, tell us.” Grace pleaded.

He almost melted. But then he said, firmly, “A person has a right to their secrets. I bet you got secrets you won’t tell.”

“True,” admitted Grace.

“How’d you get stuck in here in the first place?” I asked.

“Well, I was up in the roof garden. I was sketching a picture of Central Park and I was really intent on it. There were big sculptures all around me and I guess the guards just missed me. Thank God it was summer. I slept out under the stars. Wouldn’t want to do that tonight.”

“Yeah, right.” I said as I sipped the hot cocoa he’d made. “How did you feel when you realized you were stuck on the roof?”

“At first I was nervous. I didn’t want the guards to find me and think I was an art thief. So I hid and waited till people came up the next day, then I kinda mingled a little and took the elevator with the next group going down.”

“What about your job? Were you late?”

“Nah, I do a lunch shift. In at 11:30, out at 3:30. After that first night, I worked my waiter shift and went home to my tiny little apartment in a 5th floor walkup. Then I got to thinking, what if I could live at the Met? It’s a whole lot bigger than my expensive studio. Paywhat-you-wish instead of New York rent. Plenty of room to set up an easel, paint, draw. On weekends, I sell my work outside to the tourists. I get my exercise walking around. Lots of stairs. Better than a gym. I can wade and bathe in the pool around the temple of Dendur.”

“Do you ever take the pennies and dimes out of the pool?” asked Grace.

“Sometimes. A little at a time, so the guards don’t notice. I’m not greedy. Before I moved in, I used come in here and sketch on my days off. Waiting tables is just my day job. I’m really an artist. I love this place. So I worked out the logistics, made some dry runs. Then I gave up my apartment. Now the Met’s my home.”

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“Are you ever scared? Are there ghosts in the Egyptian wing?” asked Grace.

“Naw, c’mon. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“Well, not really. I’m too big for that. But I like ghost stories.”

“Ok, let’s tell some, “ said Harold.

Harold made another round of s’mores, we munched on his grapes and then began to tell our favorite ghost stories. Sure enough, Harold did come up with one about a mummy in the Egyptian wing.

But it wasn’t scary enough to keep Grace awake. Her eyelids drooped and then she curled up on one side of the cushioned bench.

Harold and I looked at each other. “Time to get Grace to bed,” I said. “She looks comfy there.”

“Yeah, but it gets kinda chilly at night. And of course, I gotta turn off the gas logs, clean up here. How about we take her to the canopy bed down the hall from here?”

“She’ll love that.”

Harold handed me the flashlight and picked up Grace. I lit the way as we went down the hall. The bed was big enough for the two of us.

“I’m gonna stretch out in Frank’s living room. I’ll wake you in time before the guards get here.”

“Thanks, Harold. Sleep well, ” and I handed him the flashlight. “’Nitey-night,” and he wave the flashlight in the air as he walked off.

When I slid in next to Grace, under the red coverlet, I was so tired I fell into a deep sleep.

Before I knew it, Harold was shaking me awake.

“Rise and shine, you two.”

Grace opened her eyes, and then looked puzzled, trying to remember where she was.

“Hey, Grace, you just had a sleepover at the Met,” I said.

“Oh, wow!”

“Yeah,” said Harold. “But remember the deal: you’re not tellin’ and I’m not telling. Right, Grace?”

“You bet. My friends wouldn’t believe me anyway, ” she said.

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“Ok. Now, here’s how you leave. Go into the women’s room. Get in a stall. When the museum opens, a guard will open the bathroom door, flick on a light. Wait till a visitor comes into the bathroom. Then you walk out of the stall. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Grace.

“Thanks, Harold,” I said. “You’ve been a great host.”

“Yeah, thank you,” said Grace. “This was the best sleepover of my whole entire life!”

“Just remember, mum’s the word,’ said Harold “Right,” we said together. Then Grace and I looked at each other and did what everyone does when they say the same thing at the same time: hooked our little fingers together to make a wish.

Whenever we go back to the Met, Grace and I look for Harold.

Sometimes we think we see him walking around a corner or disappearing into the crowd. A few times we saw him behind a sketch pad.

People strolled by and gazed over his shoulder watching him work.

Once or twice we caught his eye and he winked at us. His secret’s still safe with us. You won’t tell, will you?

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Photo by Suzanne Lapka

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Incredi bl e to Th ink Eileen D. Kelly

It seemed incredible now To think of those months he was dying When oh pain of losing him burned waking and sleeping in hollowed out pits of her stomach and freezing choking boulders lodged deep in her throat and then he survived got better and lived to be his old self so much so she almost took him for granted life was so good with him they went to the country last week today when she thought about it and wondered how that all happened even a funeral and then he was back how wonderful and woke up to find his side of the bed unruffled smooth and empty

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Y e at s R e v i s i t e d Eileen D. Kelly

That is no country for old men or women Who lie in each other's arms and love With bursting hearts and hot bodies The young cannot imagine They cling and murmur and tell their passion With the long, long story of filled and vacant cups Of desire, yearning, brimming, flooding That country is cold for them This one’s alive and warm and smart and loving It knows all and had it all. It wants more.

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H o w s t o n o r Yo u s t o n ?

Eileen D. Kelly

She needed to get to the J train, Gladys was told, to get to her patient.

It was her first day as a NYC home care nurse. New to the city, she didn’t know that train at all, except that it wasn’t near her apartment on Houston St. in Manhattan. Her patient lived on Delancey St, a neighborhood she was unfamiliar with. Gladys checked on her smart phone’s GPS and found that she didn’t need that train after all; she could walk there.

The nice GPS voice directed her to go East. Then the voice, whom Gladys had affectionately named Ethel, suddenly said, ”Are you on Houston St, pronounced like HOUSE, or are you on the one pronounced YOU, as in Houston, Texas?”

Gladys didn’t know. She decided to use a combination of both words and said, HOWYOUSTON St.” Ethyl took issue with that and said, “You’re trying to confuse me!

That’s not nice. I’m not going to help you anymore!”

Gladys cursed to herself, turned off the GPS, then turned it back on and selected a male voice with a British accent. Meanwhile she kept walking East on Houston or Youston St., muttering, “who cares what you call it!” The male GPS, whom Gladys dubbed Percy, began asking the same questions Ethyl had asked about which pronunciation and confused the issue further with his English accent. Gladys told him to “get lost.”

Percy said, “I’ll gladly direct you in getting lost, Gladys. Now make a U turn, go back to where you started and keep going. That’ll get you good and lost!” Gladys thought she even heard a “tee hee!” She cursed some more, shut off the phone altogether and hailed a cab.

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Yo u n g G h o s t C e c i l e We r t h e i m K r a m e r

He died in his bed. His last words were, ‘I’m ready to go.” “I said you can go.” So he went. He was eighty six. The day after his death, I was sitting on my couch, there was a knock on the door. I opened it. He was standing there dressed in his little league uniform and holding a baseball glove. He looked up and asked me if I was ready to go to his game.

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Lost Gloves Lost Guy C e c i l e We r t h e i m e r K r a m e r

I lost two gloves, I lost one guy. Just two gloves, not just any guy. I don’t miss the gloves, I miss the guy. The gloves were family, related in size, style, not color. They were thermal lined for warmth. The guy no longer radiated the sensation of warmth.

Glove number one was dark green velour, the guy’s eyes were a sexy light green with glints of gold. Glove number two a leopard print. The guy was not part leopard. If I were asked to choose an animal describing him, it would be a bull. He was a true Taurean -- stubborn but kind.

My gloves are what they are, gloves. I wear one green, and one leopard glove. Luckily the opposite ones were lost. Possibly I’ll start a fad. In time the remaining gloves will wear out, or I will grow tired of them. I could make finger puppets. Don’t think I could have done that with the guy. He’s dead, deceased, passed on, bones in a box. My gloves live on in my glove drawer-The guy, my guy, lives on in every fiber of my being.

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H o p e Yo u M a d e i t O u t O . K .

C e c i l e We r t h e i m K r a m e r

They lived in an underground bunker ever since the raid. The father had been digging for almost two years. The bunker was ten stories deep, the food and water supply was running out. The mother was fading, her frail body could hardly leave her pallet. The oldest child became the mother. The father was planning to leave the bunker in hopes of finding food and water up top. None of them had been up top for over a year. The father put on his climbing gear. He did not take any food or water with him except for a chocolate tootsie roll lollypop he had been keeping for an emergency. This was that emergency.

He left the bunker with a forced smile on his worried face. When he opened the bunker door he almost tripped. These weren’t the rough stairs he had painstakingly built with the help of his eldest son. The intense light blinded him for an instant. These stairs were made of tiny mosaic luminous tiles in shades of purple, pink, blue and green.

He slowly stepped on the first stair and heard a crunching sound. He looked down, his heavy boot had crushed many of the tiny tiles. He grabbed the railing but couldn’t hold on. The railing was black, black as onyx, it was slippery to the touch. He tried to steady himself, he dared not sit down for fear his weight would crush more of the stunning tiles. He leaned back against the closed door of the bunker and managed to take off his heavy boots. He removed his thick socks, gingerly putting his bare left foot on the second step. The tiles remained intact. The father took a deep breath and placed his right foot on the third step, the tiles were undamaged. He began his climb, after many hours he had managed to walk up one flight. He stopped to catch his breath and wipe his clammy face with the sleeve of his

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jacket. He looked up, the stairs had disappeared! He found himself floating in space. He felt a force pushing him forward until he landed on another set of stairs. These were constructed of exotic woods. He recognized teak, zebra and rosewood. His bare feet were sore as he stepped onto the first step, he howled in pain! The wood was rough and he had a giant splinter in his big right toe. He sat down on the next step without thinking, it gave way. The father grabbed the railing, he screamed in pain, the railing was made of razor blades. His right hand was cut to pieces.

The father turned around, he was a mess. He headed back down the stairs he had climbed and banged on the door of the bunker with his good left hand. The door opened, no one was in the bunker! They had left him a note. We found an elevator, we will meet you up top. Hope you made it out o.k. Love, Your family.

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Rules...in Art and Life K a r e n K r a s ko w

I like to make rules, no, I need to learn to follow rules. But rulefollowing must come with understanding, no matter how conscious the understanding is, of the reason.

We get off the back of the bus so the driver can let people on in the front. But how many follow this, and why don’t they follow. If people followed rules, would the world be better, or worse. Rules were meant to be broken, the adage goes. Why is that? It’s the understanding beneath that that matters. But sometimes you have to have the experience of the benefit of that, perhaps just the experience, to know the significance of the rule.

In art, you can be asked to follow the contour, not pick your pencil up till you’ve finished. How much you gain from this is extraordinary. You know in the act of doing that you’re breaking down a curve into parts - you decide where it breaks - there’s infinite ways of doing so - and those decisions make the statement you’re making…make the view.

Everyone would choose differently. And you must get the angle, the imaginary angle that would be made if you connected the origin of the curve to its end - the chord. This is what art is about - the decisions you make. And it goes so fast, you create before your eyes even though your eyes are not seeing it as it develops. But then you learn to look as you draw. This is harder, because you have to find your place after you’ve looked up at the model, and you have to say ‘this is not right,’ repeat your line….do it again in a different direction.

I have not yet put tracing paper over a drawing, as my teacher suggested, and try new lines over the old. It’s adjusting to the truth you see. What you see is different from what others see. So the

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decisions you make will be guided by that. There is no rule as to what you see. No one can control that. And there is no rule as to how you must express it. There is no right or wrong.

So back to the bus - it would help if people followed the rules - the bus would move faster, the driver would be on schedule. Life would go more smoothly.

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To T r e a s u r e . . .To D i s c a r d K a r e n K r a s ko w

“Ok,” I said, with a mouthful of ….

You’re asking me to talk. I can’t, I have a mouthful of thoughts. Help me sort those thoughts - discard what’s useless and treasure what’s valuable. Help me destroy the reservation or should I say dissolve the reservation, to be kinder to myself. Talking should be free, freely given, free to expose. But sometimes there’s a holdback, a blade that cuts the thread to the outside. Let that be loose, let the fabric be sewn.

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W e G o t To L i v e To g e t h e r . . .

K a r e n K r a s ko w

We are different. We have different strengths and weaknesses. Shall we know our strengths, our own and others...? We do this every day with children, but forget about it frequently with adults. Do we know our parents’ strengths and weaknesses?

Do we know the strengths of the woman behind the cash register at Whole Foods. She’s doing a job, ringing up our goods, packaging them, she may have a dream and this is only a stepping stone. What we see is her willingness or lack thereof, the fact that she may have done for others all day and needs something for herself. What would she do if we believed in her? She has realities to deal with, financial, relational, and this is part of her day.

Let’s be a pleasant passerby who gives something to her or at least cooperates with her task. Let’s go off in a better frame of mind because we have helped someone, or recognized someone. The world might be a better place.

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Photo by Suzanne Lapka

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S ay i n g G r a c e S u z a n n e L a p ka

Fireworks burst in the eardrums Explosion. Eruption.

Smashing into chasm.

Beauty twisted beside Disaster.

Shards slicing Beams airborne.

Special effects?

Fiction?—No fact The inferno Flames and suffocating smoke The child ashes amidst ashes Tiny, alone, still Some cry out to God Others scream curses at God The Girl motionless Her blue smock dress with barely visible Her blond hair soot-dyed Pasted to her delicate face.

Her eyes stare blankly No movement “Child, I will help you fly Hold my hand little one” Slight flicker of recognition to words.

“I will help you.

Take my hand.”

She places her tiny fingers On my wrist There’s blood on her other hand No way to determine the impact.

Her hand registers no weight on my wrist

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I cover her fingers with My giant hand squeezing softly Testing the child’s world.

I smile No response.

“Little Angel” No response.

“Lift your head up.

See the clouds.”

Barely visible Eyes closed Then open squinting upward.

I remove a large piece of plaster from her dress Uncovering two beautiful Butterflies.

She smiles ever so slightly Her body moves “I will fly you to a magical place.

My name is Olivia.”

Barely audible I hear, “Grace” “Grace ready for lift off One, two, three.”

I cradle her feather body in my arms.

To Dr. Peters. To ambulance “We are going to continue our journey in my magical bus.

Playing high sounds “Grace I will stay with you” Grace stares in terror.

“I promise, Mommy will be with you soon.”

I cannot believe this to be A lie. That would be too Horrible to imagine.

Instead Saying Grace For Grace.

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Act III S u z a n n e L a p ka

Don’t tell anyone. They can’t help. Why subject them to this.

I knew it was coming. There were symptoms, but I waited. I didn’t want to know. If the diagnosis is not spoken, perhaps it doesn’t exist.

Idiotic reasoning.

Leslie is aware that my energy level is extremely low, and my tolerance for stupidity has evaporated. She knows I am lying about my health, but she holds her tongue because she loves me.

I try not to wince from the excruciating pain around others. Sometimes I am successful. More often, I am incapable of securing the mask.

Damn, I had such a voracious appetite. I loved to start with dessert.

Now I eat little, except for the painkillers.

Thank God Matthew is on tour for six months. I’m so grateful he’s away.I could not have held up the shield. He would see in a moment the ugly reality.

Julie and Gerard want me to join them in East Hampton. Almost every summer we’d spend a weekend there.

Matthew and Gerard loved the ocean. They were like kids battling the Monster Waves to go beyond the breakers.

Julie and I would sit under the umbrella discussing plays, and books.

There was little dialogue. Julie was Queen Bee at gossip.

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“Did you know Rachel just found out David is gay. She caught him in the act with Reed.”

Why did I listen? I could care less about this soap opera garbage, and Julie.

“You must come to the Playhouse with us. Lotti said that the playwright is a genius, and gorgeous to boot. After, there’s this new Italian restaurant, Gerard knows the chef, so we will be treated royally.”

“I don’t have the time,” I said.

Now make a new will.

Leave everything to the kids, except my ruby ring. That’s for Leslie.

God, this is madness! Hold fast lady.

Now create an album.

Photos, cards, drawings, our Playbills.

All special moments from our lives, and Emma and Steve’s world with the grandkids.

Dear God, my shots of the family’s vacation in Greece. Don’t but I do. I sob uncontrollably.

That time held a piece of the love shared, and the arguments about insignificant problems. Not idyllic, but real.

Now the most difficult.

My dearest Matthew, Don’t mourn my death.

Between my birthdate and the date of my death is a space That is my life.

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Celebrate it!

Throw a grand raucous party.

This is wrong. My thoughts are jumbled, and worthless.

Get your head around this, Lady. You don’t have much time to make this right.

You loved me with your soul.

We shared the fight to survive through countless terrors.

We battled and won many. Lost our way, but managed together.

The joy of Emma was the gift we gave each other. Then Steve. They created our two most precious grandkids.

Watching Sofia pedal off on her own and remember Sam’s fingerpainted masterpieces.

Matthew keep my memory alive, but revel in the new world.

Take your love forward.

Promise me you won’t crawl into the fetal position as you did when Jason died in your arms.

We struggled with grief, and then healing.

We learned to go forward.

Now our jewels Emma, Steve, Sofia and Sam are yours now.

Give them the best.

Hold them tightly. They will anchor you.

I have cursed and screamed toward the heavens. “I have had enough.

No more!”

But I had to accept the findings.

Inoperable cancer.

Matthew scatter my ashes in the ocean beyond the breakers.

Farewell my love, I cry. I laugh.

I put me to bed.

To my rest.

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Norma Jean Sandy Lee Lofaso

How he missed her, his Norma Jean.

When was the last time his sight had seen, her sunny smile; her soulful eyes.

Yes, how he missed his Norma Jean.

At night he traversed under dark blue sky and moved to and fro in the moonlit dark.

His heart calling out from in the deep dark black, Norma, Norma, Norma Jean.

When was the last time they walked this road, hand and hand as lovers do?

Two as one, and one as two- his sweet, sweet lovely beloved Jean.

How he missed her velvet voice, its soft texture sent flutters throughout his heart, and excited him in his every part, his sweet, sweet fragile, Norma Jean.

When was the last time they walked this road to stony chapel on hill so high, to bow his knee in matrimonial bliss, and give his Norma his gentle kiss.

Her breath so full of life it seemed, who would think she now did cease to be on earth, his one true love, the likes to never find again in this time to be, someone who fit to him so perfectly.

Yes he once knew a maid so fair, so nice, who warmed his being to ecstatic delights, so now how could his heart be so covered in ice, that each breath he takes is so void of life.

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Her memory haunts him so clear each night, as he thinks back with clear hindsight.

Oh Norma, Oh Norma, my one and only delight, Let me remember you in my hearts aching sight.

At night they would talk for hours on end, without an utter, or a word to say.

The silence between them was quite enough, for them to understand what unsaid was meant; Yes, to be together was just surely enough, yes, He and his fine lovely Norma Jean.

Now years gone by, in bitter cold, he went to find his life’s mate of old, Who was gone from him and his fervent love, yet he prayed, maybe some place they’d meet again, he and his soul mate to the end.

Oh God, why have you rent my heart, tore it to mere shreds and parts!

How can a man go on alone, when he’d kissed the fair lips of his Norma, his Jean?

So at the church on high he stood outside, and softly whispered a prayer of his heart, That one day he would leave the earth and find the heavenly place of her rebirth.

So slowly, slowly he walked, inside the old white fence stained brown by sea, Through headstones many he passed by unawares, until he found the stone twas she.

He knelt on hollowed ground did he, with tear in eye he placed a rose at the grave he knew so well to be, The sweet sacred ground that housed his love; his sweet, sweet, sweet be-loved, His Norma Jean

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Where Am I From Sandy Lee Lofaso

Where am I from? Where am I going? Where am I now? These questions always lead me to the unanswerable question of the ages; that man must have queried since his beginning times. Who am I? Which also echoes, how was I created?

Am I just a lump of clay fashioned from the earth’s substance? Am I cosmos inherited stardust, which gleamed eons ago?

Am I what I think or eat? Am I my arduous passions or the sublime stillness I rest in during my quiet moments of contemplation?

Am I the watcher or that which is seen, or am I both, simultaneously?

Am I existential or pantheistic?

Am I all the above, or none, or a part thereof?

I know not where I come from and if I truly shall return to anything, no less where it shall be.

I have tasted the deep created light that sublimely hides in the shadows of fear and the unknown, but what does that prove? It could all just be the flickering dance of the neurons of my so-called gray matter.

My faith says I am a spiritual being who came from the endless Ain Sof, the Father Absolute, and hopefully will be united with it, him, she in some glorious alleluia of release and eternal ecstasy!

In the stillness I feel a powerful Presence, but is it just the illusions of a fanciful imagination?

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The Holy Book said, “ Be still and know I am God,” so I continue to practice contemplation and prayer in silence each day. Listening to and for what I do not know. Though this seems to help manifest useful knowledge and compassion for others in my life, the deeper I go, the less I seem to know about the Mystery that is All. The oracle says, “ Know Thyself,” easier said than done.

But still, the questions seem to inform my life, to uplift it, to give it purpose.

The Good Book says, “ Ehyeh, asher, ehyeh,” I am who and that I am.

Adonai Echad, the Lord is One. Christ said that the Father is in Him, and he is in us, so we are in Spirit all connected.

These are very ponderous statements, which have truly led to profound questions.

So, in the autumn of my life, as winter soon approaches I still ask the questions, but I no longer look for the answers, nor do I expect them.

So then what?

Be still, act and do the best you can and try to serve and be more humble.

The golden rule; do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.

Maybe someday, in a flash, all the answers will appear. But for now I am happy just to be alive and be tried and tested by enormous task of loving thy neighbor as thyself.

So the only answer I have found beyond all credos and beliefs that humbly works for me is that, love trumps all.

Amen.

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I u s e d t o b e Yo u n g , b u t n o w I a m Yo u n g at H e a r t Sandy Lee Lofaso

I used to be young, but now I am said to be old, by some, but I like to feel I am just young at heart.

Memories.

Sometimes in the quiet of the night, when I rise from a deep slumber I realize I have been dreaming of the bygone times of my youthful enthusiasm. These memories flash through the recesses of my mind like thunder and lightening, clapping, bravo, bravo!

Because you see, they were good memories and they helped me to form, I hope, though some would disagree, a healthy persona. Yes, I know a persona is like a mask from a Greek tragedy, but I cannot think of my youth as being tragic in the least.

Egoistic, you might ask, no, just the luck of the draw. I was not born into a rich family, per se, but I had two of the most loving, fair, honest parents, God rest their souls that a boy could hope for.

Their parenting style was very simple, just yes or no, and when they said no, boy they meant it. My sisters and I were showered in love, respect and encouragement, yet we were taught to put the needs of others first. My mom’s heroes were Mahatma Gandhi, and such, so from her I received my love of things of the spirit, and a concern for good citizenship and a yearning for things ephemeral.

Mom helped everyone and was always bringing people home, no matter what religion or ethnicity, to protect, aid and care for them.

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Dad taught me by “ the example.” He was strong, but gentle. When he helped someone he never let anyone know about it. And you never heard him gossip, and he rarely said a bad word about anyone.

He was a hard worker but loved to play, and he loved my mother with all his heart, the whole sixty years they were married.

Mom and Dad were childhood sweethearts, and if you did not know better, you felt they were still on their honeymoon all the years they were together. And boy, could they cut a rug together on the dance floor. In fact, my dad was so crazy about mom, that when he commuted from Manhattan to Long Island, where we moved from Brooklyn in later years, he would pass up relative after relative through Queens, even in a snow storm to get home to his beloved wife, each and every night, no matter what!

To my mom, Dad was her shinning knight, and her hero, as he was for my two sisters and me. Mom was all about values, and doing the right thing. Once when I was eight years old, I complained that my mother had bought a more expensive birthday gift for the young neighbor who lived next door, than she had for my birthday. He was a boy who had a hearing difficulty and was made fun of and ridiculed by all the neighborhood children. I remember how much it hurt when she told me how ashamed she was that I felt that way.

So if, I have retained just an inkling of the wisdom and love that my parents selflessly gave to me, to share with my sons, how lucky and blessed they would be!

So, when I wake at night to these dreams of old, I feel so young at heart, like when I was eight years old playing stickball on the streets of Brooklyn, waiting for mom to call out from our front stoop, “ dinner time, son, time to come home!”

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Photo by Suzanne Lapka

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R o o t s a n d B r a n c h e s ( Pa r t I ) Judith Lukin

I am from music, from rock ‘n’ roll and folk songs at Metropolitan Music School.

I am from mandolin concerts and singing for Paul Robeson.

I am from equality and civil rights, from peace demonstrations in NYC and DC. I am from salt-of-the-earth parents for whom all children were their children.

I am from city streets and dirt roads, shading country trees and cooling lakes.

I am from justice, fairness, integrity and questioning everything, from a family where the most prized possession was “our good name.”

I am from parents poor in money and wealthy beyond measure in culture, kindness, language, history, hugs and love.

I am from Jews who perished in gas chambers, from Jews who somehow managed to immigrate to America.

I am from a Jewish tailor and a community activist, from secrets hidden in Yiddish and from traditional culture.

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I am from Puerto Rican streets and salsa.

I am from rice and beans, mofongo, buddin, pernil, pasteles, platanos, pastelillos and pastelón.

I am from African fabrics, designs and drum beats.

I am from Native American reverence for our mother earth.

I am from language, a fondness for words and their origins.

I am from organizing, whether words on paper, beads along a necklace or people in communities.

I am from good conversations and stories, from storytelling and story-listening since birth.

I am from friendship circles with good food, respect and affection.

Still, I am also from contrariness, impatience, and stubbornness.

I am from judgment making and even out-loud judgment sharing – honest to a fault.

I am from frustration with social inequities and injustice, easy ways out, expediencies, lies, excuses and hypocrisy.

Finally, I am from prison reduction and reform – and lots of it!

I am for supporting those coming out and freeing, immediately, those unjustly imprisoned.

I’ve heard it said that prisons are the dumping ground for those with mental illness.

I am from observing that those who incarcerate, at all levels, are sometimes the ones with mental illness - even prone to violence.

Despite where I’m from originally, I’ve also become from disillusionment, cynicism, disgust, disbelief and anger.

I used to be from nurturing a good society, social movements, joining with others in community,

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but I see the Golden Rule tarnished and rusted: Those who’ve got the gold, make the rules.

I am from exhaustion now and screaming sadness for the planet, but, since I was from great goodness at the start, I still celebrate goodness in whatever nooks and crannies I may find it, including family, dear friends, great ideas, humor, melody, colors, mother nature and all seven Greek goddesses who play nicely together in me.

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Ho mag e to SJ Judith Lukin

These things I remember about you:    

          

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No one had ever celebrated your birthday ‘till I did when you were 30ish.

As a city child, you had no idea how to start a grill for a back-yard barbecue.

You wore obscenely short cut-off jeans on our spontaneous trip to Atlantic City and they wouldn’t let us in the casino as a result.

You gave up attending the prestigious invitation-only gala because I was ill with food poisoning; you took care of me instead.

You loved the pattern of my new long housecoat, but not the fabric; it didn’t matter much, you said, because I wouldn’t be wearing it for long.

You were the best, most seductive Latin dancer.

You were protective of me in private and in public.

You were never afraid of honesty or deep personal dialogues.

You were always loving and affectionate.

You were serious when it mattered and oh-so-funny the rest of the time.

You understood that slow dancing could fix anything.

You were patient, soft-spoken and gentle.

You were not put off by my super-academic and over-analytical mind.

You understood there was a very hungry kitten under my selfconfidant façade.

You were mischievous and fun.

 

You lived spontaneously in the moment.

You were the slowest, most skillful lover - ever.

Dear SJ, I remember you this Valentine’s Day, almost 40 years later, and I am grateful for every little moment of those fleeting six months after my divorce.

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Photo by Suzanne Lapka

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Summer Ya s u ko N a g a s a w a

It was in 1985, my first day a secretary’s life.

Summer…S-U-M-M-E-R…Sa-ma-a-, I pronounced it.

“Gi-Me-Wa-Taa-.” The delivery man asks me, “Huh? What did you say?” He makes a drinking water gesture.

Summer ---a kid swallows ice, a girl is stripping her wearing dress at the limitation, a young man is wearing a sleeveless shirt, is showing tattoos all over his arm on the street in NY City.

A gold fish breathes air from out of water in a glass bowl.

Sunflowers celebrate this season in my room. It is a good idea to go Union Square park and bring the book, Anya’s Ghost.

Tonight I go outside from my room with the elevator; at the hall, a door man is smiling and says “Have a good night.” He is the new staff.

An old staff, Tim liked my home-made sushi rice ball.

I made 14 rice balls every Fourth of July for all the staff of the Lexington Residence.

The next day he washed the plate and gave it back.

He was not a gossip maker; he was a “welcome home” man.

He was off 3 weeks and never came back to here.

He is facing cancer.

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I moved in here and “wow,” the summer turned 27 times.

You can see the Freedom Tower from here; I still remember the Twin Towers were the symbol of the South.

And Empire State Building you can almost touch like the next building.

It is a half-moon tonight.

You can see a white rabbit in the moon.

You can’t see it? Never mind! It is a kids’ story in Japan.

It is coming to time to close my Mid-town life.

I will open my new life somewhere in the suburbs, Imagine my summer, how many time will I able to celebrate?

Never mind, I am still alive.

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L a b o r D ay Ya s u ko N a g a s a w a

The next week on Monday is Labor Day. All people have the holiday in September 1st Monday.

According to Oxford dictionary, Labor Day is a public holiday in U.S. on first Monday of September, in honor of working people.

How do you spend the day at home? It is not Father’s Day. Nowadays mother supports her family and father takes care of their family.

I have another question about Labor Day. The meaning of labor is work, especially physical work.

Having baby is also Labor.

Again, Labor Day is in honor of working people.

Indeed, work is to do something that involves physical or mental effort, especially as part of a job.

Finally, I get an answer. I have a job; it is involved mental. Therefore, I belong to workers in honor of working people.

I tell me, a Happy Labor Day. Have a good one.

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How to Steal a Heart E m m a P h o j a n a ko n g

Would I be able to do it? Steal a heart. If I worked hard on it, I could. I remember vividly my first encounter with the opposite sex, or was it the second one? He knocked on our door bearing gifts.

“The banana tree is drooping down because of the weight of the ripening bananas. Before the bugs get into it, I thought you may like the sweet taste of the Lacatan, a variety of sweet whitish banana unlike any other banana--like the Chiquita brand, they sell in the United States. It is half the size with a yellow peel, and inside a white, pure, pristine color, like the first snow of winter.”

Thereafter, I would notice him hanging around the neighborhood. I learned his name is Jesus, an ex-seminarian. He would call me by phone and request to play the Johnny Mathis song, “A Certain Smile”.

I guess it was mutual attraction. I found him fascinating and always smiling. That summer was memorable. We went to the beach with friends. He started sending me little things through a friend, like a rose, a chocolate. I was drawn to him because of his demeanor— quiet, unassuming and always smiling. It was innocent love. We were both smitten. He would always end the conversation with good night, sweet dreams. I guess first love never dies, it just fades away.

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On The Road Again E m m a P h o j a n a ko n g

The sights and sounds of Cambodia are so memorable. It will be a part of my life forever. It is no doubt a spiritual journey, sharing the history, the life, the culture of the Khmer people.

The sounds of the Tuk Tuk, a motorized tricycle, as it navigates the narrow streets of Phom Penh is a wonder. The myriad sounds at night coming from my window, at the Golden Banana Hotel in Siem Rep, included the sound of the gecko, remember the sound of the Geico commercial on TV. The people believe it is good luck to hear the gecko in the house.

Indeed, the Maryknoll Lay Missioners and the Friends Across the Borders sacrificed a lot to improve the life of the marginalized people of Cambodia. Who will forget Charlie and his impassioned experience working with the deaf? He brought tears to my eyes with his story of a deaf boy’s first experience in school, acting like a wild animal. The volunteers developed the first Cambodian sign language for the deaf.

Due to war torn Cambodia, there is a proliferation of land mines, hence there is a large population of disabled. Aside from the rice fields in the countryside, there is also the Cheong Elk Killing fields. The genocide decimated whole families. The Maryknoll volunteers established mental health clinics to help the population.

Angkor Wat, the biggest religious site on earth was built by Jayavarman VII. It is three times the size of Central Park. Cambodia is 95% practicing Buddhists. You can see the architectural skills and engineering expertise of the Khmer. Their massive reservoirs stored the annual monsoon rain that enabled the people to have a

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sophisticated distribution of water and hence the domestication of rice, their main agricultural product. It is one of the greatest achievements in human history.

Who will forget the sight of the gigantic, majestic elephants walking the paths to the temples of Angkor Wat, guided by their mahouts. At sunset, large dragon flies swarm around the moat that surrounds the temples. Monkeys, too, swing from tree to tree. It is really a sight to behold.

The lasting impression is the happy, smiling faces you see everywhere. The generosity, friendliness and the resiliency of the Cambodian people will be etched in our memory. I was on the road again to see all these. Next year, I’m hoping I will see the Serengeti and travel to Tanzania.

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The Dark Ann Quintano

She probed around in the dark, her fingers alert to whatever she might come in contact with. Her fingers felt nimble and able and sensitive like tiny antenna. She felt the books atop her table, and the tissue’s softness which she meant to discard before she became distracted by something else that night. he felt the cold edge of the plate and on top of it, the soft corner of bread, the oozing peanut butter. “What!” she thought, “she had never finished the sandwich?

She must have fallen asleep.” She brought her fingers to her mouth and licked off the peanut butter that had escaped the bread onto her fingers. The smell of the peanut butter filled the room so she could no longer smell the three incense sticks that lay on top of the table ready for lighting; the thick Nam Champa scent when used for meditation.

She wandered the room this way re-acquainting herself with those things of hers that shared the space with her; that made up the substance of her life; that gave details to the question of who she was.

She felt delicious that there was such a diversity of soft and hard and textures smooth and rugged and rough and the scents pungent, repugnant, inviting, distressing. The delight in it soon gave way to a terrible feeling of chaos and disorder. The room spun. She withdrew her nimble probing finger from the outer world and brought them safely to her chest. She embraced herself in a calming, confining way.

“All is in order,” she thought, “nothing flying about unhinged and untamed. I am safe.”

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She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to listen carefully—to the neighbor next door coughing, his TV too loud, laughing. She heard the rhythmic dripping of water from her sink, one drop drawn out in anticipation; hovering, hovering, then the drops, one after another in an uncomfortably, unpredictable way.

She tired to familiarize herself again anew, with her home, a new home, in a way, from this vantage point. She hadn't been born blind and this was only her first week of not being able to see and she was a stranger to it all; the blindness, the room, the negotiating, the unquenchable, relentless tears of self-pity and anger.

She made her way back to the table in search of the cool plate. She imagined it as the white plate with blue cornflowers, but how could she know? It just as easily could have been the red Christmas plate with white snowflakes. She rescued the peanut butter sandwich from the plate and held the bulk of it in her mouth, so with free hands trembling in rage she could send the plate flying across the room shattering, without considering the consequence of unseen shards placing her feet at risk. In her mind’s eye she saw the blue cornflowers dissolve, bleed away. She sat eating the sandwich. Only taste seemed real now; solid, manageable, appreciated. She savored the tastes and then she cried for the loss of one blue cornflower after another.

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The Key Ann Quintano

Brain Lambert fiddled in his pockets as he usually did; a ritual of sorts for finding his key. He set down his pack—small black backpack which he wore over one shoulder, one strap of which was torn beyond repair. He stood and rummaged through tissue and lint laden pockets for his room key. It wasn’t there. Light escaped from above the green doors of the rooms that lined the second floor. Chicken coop wire ran above the flimsy sheet rock that separated their 6’ x 8’ rooms; the uncomfortable cots, the ubiquitous black garbage bags into which most men stashed their worldly possessions.

Brian Lambert had now lost access to his worldly possessions and to the only space that stood between him and the cold streets that haunted a life of homelessness which he had experienced before and dreaded.

“I’m too old now,” he found himself saying out loud, worried about, and wearied at, the thoughts of homelessness.

It cost any man who lost his key a $20 replacement fee. His lint filled pocket were host to all the money he had--$3.58. There was no way he could replace the key and so he attempted to retrace his steps.

The air was harsh, but invigorating as he stepped back outside. A light spray of a freezing rain brushed his face—seemed to cling to his eyebrows, the hair in his nostrils, his eyelashes. He walked along Stanton Street, Houston Street, down the Bowery. He stopped in front of the restaurant supply store where he had stopped earlier that morning where he had reflected upon his days as a cook. He saw his

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reflection in the polished stainless steel of the huge fridge and rubbed his chin where the stubble from not shaving was particularly marked.

He remembered this morning, remembering his life then; Tally Fisher, his live-in girlfriend, their dog Max. Max was like any other dog of that name; a compact, affectionate mongrel, a loyal friend. When they broke up, Tally took him—not that he didn’t want Max but that the same drinking that had lost him his job had lost him his home and so Tally and Max both.

He had stood idling in front of the fridge feeling sorry for himself; feeling victimized by alcohol; feeling the likes of a despondency which has taken up permanent residency and is now a companion of unwanted intimacy.

Yes, he remembered now—how he had rifled his pockets for some tissues to blow his nose because the unwanted tears he withdrew from is eyes had filled his nose. And then there was the sound of three pennies and his key falling onto the stainless steel sink in front of the fridge but all had been ignored by the urgency of his regrets fueling the dampness he was tending to with the tissues.

He looked down now into the steel sink and saw there was his key.

The three pennies were gone. The key was there. The remnant of a balled up tissue was there too. He reached for them both and shoved them into his pocket and decided to retrace his steps further until he could go back and back and maybe find the key for which he was really searching.

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Coyot e Mo o n Joan Reese

A full moon shone like a silver saucer.

The moonlight cut through the bedroom venetian blinds, appearing as steps to heaven.

Suddenly, my head was filled with howling sounds.

Was it the wind, the ocean? I fell into a deep sleep.

I was transported to a forest filled with Banyan trees, their roots seeming like gnarly fingers reaching out from the bowels of the earth.

My mouth opened wide to ask, “Is anyone there?�

I heard a roaring howl; was that me? I looked down, I no longer had a human body.

I was transformed into a female coyote with golden fur. I instinctively knew I was in a secret meeting place.

I howled again and again. I heard the crunching of dried leaves; the sound was getting closer, but I was not afraid.

From the darkened forest, I saw glowing eyes staring at me.

These eyes were familiar and I moved closer, unafraid.

It was he, a large alpha male coyote. I felt I had birthed many pups by this male.

The courting dance began. Rubbing our heads together, our jaws locked, tongue to tongue. For being a beast, he was very gentle.

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The moon was now at its highest, it was easier to see our surroundings.

More sounds of crunching leaves and breaking branches.

Four more male coyotes joined the party, with teeth bared.

I proudly watched as a furious battle began; I hoped my mate would win.

It was hard to tell the difference between the fighting animals.

A stream of blood led to my feet. Startled, I stood in the red pool.

The moon was sinking in the sky, the howling, growling, and fighting continued.

I felt sunlight surrounding me. A sharp piercing sound invaded my sleep.

My eyes half open, I searched for the sound and brought it close to my ear.

I heard a familiar male voice, “Don’t worry, we are going to win the case!

You need to be at the courthouse a 9 o’clock sharp.”

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Mi Nombre es Carmen My Name is Carmen Bob Rosen

The real Carmen has three children from three different men and lives on public assistance. She takes in children during the week, watches over them and feeds them for a fee. The children’s mothers work at menial jobs cleaning apartments or sewing or factory work—dragging themselves back to Carmen’s place after a long, tedious day to retrieve their children. They go back to their homes to sleep and start off the next day giving them over to her for another day.

The economic recovery hasn’t filtered down to her and her friends and she reminds herself to be more careful with the men she chooses to sleep with. Oh yes, she is an expert in broken promises: you are my own love, my only love my lovely one. Those words turn rancid in her memories and now, not too young or beautiful, here she finds herself with her bright red fingernails preparing pots of simple food for her young charges.

She parcels out advice to the women who bring her their children.

Don’t believe what those macho men tell you Maria or Rosa. In the end you will bring me another baby to look after. Carmen has matured in other ways—grown older. Time has not been kind but she still has the love of her children, hers and the tiny ones she cares for, the ones who’s mother she becomes every day except Sunday. That day she goes to church to pray for what. For being strong enough to survive this life she never imagined for herself.

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Photo by Suzanne Lapka

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The Doorman Bob Rosen

Richard the doorman was a nice guy as doormen should be but he was a nosey one, an attribute some single men who rented by the month found annoying. “Hi Mr. Ross,” he said, smiling in that wry way someone in the know had developed. “You want me to add that lady’s name to your mailman’s list?” Mr. Ross was good looking, worked in the financial markets, did well enough so that the considerable costs of living in this mid-town hotel didn’t keep him from dressing well, taking cabs when needed, inviting some coworkers from his firm over for a drink, and yes of course some sharp looking ladies who occasionally had to be helped by him or a friend out under the long awning to hail a cab, then press a twenty into the cabby’s hand and say get her home safely buddy.

Was Ross single widowed or divorced? Richard didn’t know and wasn’t going to ask, especially when the Christmas gift giving season was just days away. The difference the past week was that the procession of male friends and those good-looking females had stopped and one pretty brunette became a steady. No, not a visitor, when Richard saw that she wheeled in a big red roll on suitcase into the elevator and up to the fourth floor, and didn’t stagger out late at night too frazzled to get home without help. He noticed that the early morning breakfast delivery or the late night shopping bag from the Greek diner on Lexington Ave. had stopped. Helen, that was the new girlfriend’s name, was cooking for Ross, magically creating meals on a two burner stove, stocking the small mini fridge and washing up in the tiniest of kitchenette sinks.

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Ross was smart enough to realize that his doorman was a past master in the kind of subterfuge a lone wolf like him needed to sneak a woman into his apartment no questions asked. After Christmas he took Richard by the arm back into the mailroom and gave him an update on what was going on in Suite 463. “I may give it a try again to be married” he confided to his doorman, “but taking it on the road for a while and not rushing into it like the first time. Cost me way too much to get rid of her and you want to hear something funny? This young woman was my divorce lawyer’s secretary and there’s not much about me she doesn’t know about—what I earn, how I feel and not keeping secrets from each other. She’s young and pretty and smart and we are in love.”

“I guess you will tell me when to add her name on the mailbox,” Richard said smiling as Ross pressed a twenty-dollar bill in his gloved hand “ I’ll let you know in plenty of time,” Ross said heading off for a Wall Street appointment, “and thanks again.”

Richard noticed that now Mr. Ross was taking a train on Lexington Ave. instead of hailing a taxi. The dinners at his favorite hangouts stopped and so did the rounds of drinks for his buddies at O’Neal’s bar on Second Ave. She’s got me on a budget Richard, saving my money when we get together like legally we’ll have a nice nest egg.

St. Valentine’s Day, a holiday invented by the greeting card industry, saw the lobby and the front desk decorated with heart shaped red balloons. The day lovers all over the city celebrated. That morning the elevator door opened and Helen wheeled her large red roll on valise out the front door to the curb, hailing a taxi. Richard rushed over and said, “Miss, can I help you and will I be seeing you again?” She said no to both questions.

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A S ist e r ’s Leg acy Sandy Santora

Sara stood at the dining room table and waited with much impatience for her sister to arrive. All day she imagined what she would say after so many years but each time she rehearsed the words she experienced nothing but anxiety and the desire to postpone the encounter.

Sara’s sister, Jennifer, was bringing something they both had waited years to receive. It came from their mother and after she died the will specifically mentioned a “copper square shaped box” that was not to be opened or given to her and her sister for ten years.

Now, each in their forties, the time was here. The ten years gone without the sisters speaking. “Why should we, Sara thought to herself. There’s nothing but angst between us and shy should Jennifer be the one bringing the box? I was mom’s favorite”.

The sound of the doorbell reached into the dining room and Sara waited for the servant to bring Jennifer through.

“Damn, she hardly aged” thought Sara. Jennifer didn’t say a word but placed the box in the middle of the table. She came with the lawyer who simply said, “Here is the copper box I have held on to for the past ten years as per your mother’s request”.

“Shall we open?” The agreed to nod came from both sisters as the lawyer reached for the box and opened it.

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Inside rested a large diamond and a small diamond with a note saying, “Sara will receive the small diamond since Jennifer did not receive the abundance of love showered upon Sara�.

Sara smiled with her memories as Jennifer picked up her diamond and walked out without them.

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I Heard the Car Door Slam Sandy Santora

The man was just standing at the curb looking out across the street with an expression on his face that was chilling to behold.

Then, suddenly, I heard the car door slam shut from the car he had just left. The sound was coming from inside the car and I wanted to be able to peek into to see who was in the car that could cause such a sound and why was the man at the curb leering.

Then, again within a couple of moments he started to cross the street in the middle of traffic without even looking.

There stood another man, seemingly younger in age, standing across his path, absolutely frozen with fear as the man with the chilling expression moved close and then, forcing eye to eye contact, reached quietly for his weapon and released the sound of fired bullets.

I was watching this happen and though I was mesmerized by the shooting, for some reason I fixated on the car and watched the vehicle move out of its space, while the man across the street opened the passenger seat, moved in and down the street the car flew, leaving me to fear exposure.

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Children Sandy Santora

The children who had been picked up by the Gestapo are standing, some sitting in the holding camp ready for deportation to the unknown.

A miracle is about to happen when a small group labeled the ‘underground’ of heroes and heroines break through the barbed wire and capture, at a time well planned without discovery, over 25 children. They are gathered and deposited into the waiting truck and scurried off to a monastery where they will stay for safekeeping – temporarily.

This is happening in Belgium in 1942 and there will be an agreement between the King of Belgium and the German government to not attack one Jewish Nursing Home and one Jewish Orphanage. What the King offered in return remains a mystery.

The rescued children will spend the next years in the chosen Orphanage and following the war most will be adopted since their parents are victims of the camps.

There will, however, be interruptions several times throughout their stay. The Germans will need to fill quotas and the Orphanage provides the numbers.

Again the underground knows in advance and gathers the children to bring them to a nearby monastery until the raid has passed.

This is their life, this is their salvation.

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F i r s t D ay o f S c h o o l Sandy Santora

“Do I have to go to school?”

“Yes, said my mother, now hurry up or you’ll miss the bus.”

I missed the bus and mother was mad. She had yearned for me to give her some space for herself since, so everyone says, I was always, always on the run from 5:00am to 8:00pm.

I’m told later that my mother lost many, many pounds trying to keep up with me. In those days mother was told by the doctor that I was “very active”. In later years it would be called “hyperactive”.

After the bus left we walked, I actually ran, many blocks to enter my very first day in school.

Finally there in the classroom with so many children the teacher, Miss Harris, stood in front of the blackboard and started to talk to the first graders.

I immediately raised my hand. “What do you want dear?”

“I have to go home.”

“Why?” “Because my mother is getting married today and I have to be a bridesmaid.”

A warm smile from Miss Harris who knew that my parents were married motioned for me to sit, or try to sit down.

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The next day I didn’t miss the bus and found myself in that classroom again.’

I raised my hand, the very patient Miss Harris, knowing my name well asked, “What do you want, Sara?”

“I have to go home.”

“Why?” “My mother just gave birth to twins and I have to help.”

Two days later Sara’s mother was beside herself.

I think that if Sara doesn’t give me a break I’m going to fall apart.

Another call from her teacher saying that she cannot sit still and is making the other students wild and that if she doesn’t start to behave she must be out of the class.

Oh my god what am I going to do?

Going to the phone she dialed, “Doctor, this is Sara Jones’ mother.

Oh please I need your help. My Sara is so wild that the school is calling me to see if there’s anything I can do.”

“If I remember you telling me Sara loves to sing and dance. Maybe she should entertain the different students in all the classrooms.”

“What kind of advice is that?”

“It’s the best I can do. Don’t worry in time she’ll calm down.” And then he politely hung up.

Sara’s mother actually suggested it to her teach who must have been crazy enough to think it was a good idea.

In the meantime some days off from school were coming.

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Sara’s mother called her in-laws to beg them to take Sara for a few days to give her a rest. They reluctantly accepted and thankfully Sara is going today.

Well, it’s now three days later and time for Sara to come home. As soon as Sara’s mother opened the door her mother-in-law said, “Never, I repeat, never, will we watch this child again. All we did was run after her and I think we’ve aged 10 years.”

“Okay, I understand. Where is Sara?”

Looking around they said she was right there. Well she wasn’t. They all began searching for Sara and finally heard her from the roof laughing.

Don’t ask how but were finally able to get her down.

Sara’s mother caught her breath, her in-laws caught theirs. But Sara who did not catch on at all to what she had done, said, “I feel a song coming on.”

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My Tr i p to th e Cem etery Jane Scharfman

My friend asked me if I would join her on a Sunday to Sharon Gardens Cemetery in Valhalla, NY...to visit her husband. That's the Cemetery where all the rich and famous Jews are buried. I took a blank check and figured their plots are in demand…maybe I should buy one. Lynn, my high school sorority sister and Anita from the Club are there...and of course my past boyfriend of many years.

The salesgirl, Myra, just like a broker, walked me around…said the prices start at $3500 to $15 thousand...depending on location. location, location...

But this was Sunday and it was busy. She suggested I come up on a Tuesday when it’s quiet (if she worked for me she’d get fired…a live one with a black check).

In the meantime, I put the plot on the back burner and instead renovated my apartment. The following year I forgot again and instead took a fabulous trip…a safari in Africa. And again the next year I concentrated on the man of my dreams.

The Cemetery People (good name for a rock group) finally got in touch and said you better hurry we are running out of preferred plots.

Then my daughter heard they’re opening up a new section next Spring.

Aha…it was meant to be. I like new not old. I’ll get a small space…after all, we’ll all be on the same floor. But wait—my bathroom needs a facelift…I want pink tile, not boring mauve, not ugly coral… PINK!

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Photo by Suzanne Lapka

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Hunger on the Inside Ly n n e S t o l p e r

His closet was filled to overflowing. It held his pants, suits, ties, shirts and shoes. There was more inside his chest. It was loaded down with sweaters, shirts, shorts, pajamas, socks and underwear. The top of the chest had a special compartment for jewelry. So many watches, rings, cufflinks, tie tacks and gold bracelets gathered to form a collection with so many pieces it was difficult to count them.

He wasn’t a rich man but did well. He came from a family where his parents divorced when he was a young child. His mother wanted his father to sleep in the kitchen since she didn’t want more children— two was enough, she said. Since birth control was barely developed or available at this time, it made sense to his mother to remove her husband from their bed.

The father and husband did not take kindly to this arrangement. He moved out shortly and a divorce followed quickly.

In order for the mother to support her two small sons, there were times when she had to put them into state care. She couldn’t afford to feed and clothe them while paying rent. When she gathered enough money from state aid, odd jobs and slip and fall cases that she created out of her own resourcefulness, the boys would come back home to be with her.

Sometimes the mother had to leave the boys alone in the house to make a living. She always did what was necessary. Since the boys were only two years apart and were extremely mischievous, this led to a serious situation one day. The boys had set their mattress on fire

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and when the fire department arrived, the boys were jumping in their burning bed. Their mother was beside herself when she arrived home.

When the boys grew up they were physically undamaged, but emotionally it was a different story. They had no father growing up and a mother who did the best she could with the little she had and they never received the love and attention they desperately craved.

Jerry Peters grew up to be a very enterprising man, but one with a seriously flawed ego. He needed to build himself up by knocking others down. He made himself the center of attention telling crude and tasteless jokes sometimes at the expense of others.

Jerry and his brother did not speak for many years when they grew up because his brother sided with their father and he with his mother.

His need to fill empty space inside himself was only quenched by owning more clothes than any three people could wear and buying so much food, especially if it was on sale, that he could pat himself on the back and say “look at what I have done, I am a great provider.

Look who I am, I am important!�

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M i s u n d e r s ta n d i n g s Ly n n e S t o l p e r

Susan and Richard Jameson were having one of their twice yearly dinner parties. Susan, a gourmet chef, and Richard, a wine snob, looked forward with great relish to the delights they would put forth for their guests. They enjoyed feeding people their idea of good food.

They did not enjoy feeding children and therefore had none. They had Marvin the cat. Marvin now eighteen and getting up there in years was lucky enough to enjoy the scraps of expensive leftover meat and fish Susan and Richard prepared and put into his little white immaculately clean cat bowl.

Each day they explained to Marvin never to come to the table or jump up on it. Never lick or paw any of their precious table food. They didn’t want his cat body and hair on their hand embroidered tablecloths and certainly didn’t want his rough cat tongue licking their expensive dishes and silverware.

Marvin was an extremely smart cat. He could speak and learned to say the word NO. Susan said to Richard, “of all the things that we could have taught him NO is the one thing that seems to have stuck in his tiny cat brain.”

Susan and Richard went over Marvin’s rules for good behavior daily.

After eighteen years of indoctrination, Marvin was now on his own.

They expected excellent behavior from him.

The evening of their gourmet dinner party arrived. There were eighteen invited guests. That made twenty people including themselves for dinner.

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When no one was looking, Marvin the tiny brained cat pushed an extra chair to the table and climbed up on it. “No,” said Susan to Marvin. In a second Marvin jumped up on the table and screamed “No,” in a human voice!

“Oh you think I am just a dumb cat,” Marvin meowed. “Well, you have raised me as a child and now I am rebelling.” With that Marvin jumped from plate to plate licking each one on his path of rebellion.

When he reached Susan, he said, “I misunderstood. I thought I was invited to the diner party.”

“No!” Susan screamed. You were not invited Marvin, you are just a cat.” And with that she opened the nearest window and flung Marvin out.

Then she spoke directly to her guests and said “Misunderstandings are such a nuisance. At least that one is now gone!”

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S e l f - Ta u g h t J . P. S w a r t e l é - Wo o d

If Joey Leonard had known the word ‘autodidact’, he’d have used it— but that word had never come his way. When anybody asked him how it was that he could hand-chisel dovetail joints in the hardest oak, adjust the weight of the blades on his farm neighbor’s ancient windmill, or recite that stream of poems he’d heard in childhood— Wordsworth, Barrett Browning, and jaunty, sometimes naughty, limericks, he’d answer simply that he ‘just learned stuff.’

The neighbor children were habitual visitors to his barn, where old harnesses and partially rusted but oiled implements served as evidence of what he told them were different ways of doing things that needed doing.

Of the kids who gathered at Mr. Leonard’s—he always insisted on being addressed so and feigned deafness if any of them slipped up and called him Joey—there were three children who came most often and, near dusk on summer evenings, had to be reminded that their mothers or older brothers would soon be out looking for them.

“They’ll worry, you know,” he said to Charlotte, Jen, and Christopher.

“Think you’ve gotten lost or somebody’d picked you off the road, surmising ‘there are three strong kids: I can get a lick o’ work out o’ them.’ They laughed at this idea and Mr. Leonard smiled.

By this silly suggestion Joey Leonard had taught himself to lighten the bitter weight he had carried for many years, since Catherine, his baby sister, seven years of age, had failed to keep pace with their cousins walking home from a swim in the pond and had not returned home.

She had vanished, never to be seen again.

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B a c k i n t h e D ay J . P. S w a r t e l é - Wo o d

When George finished early—two carburetors rebuilt, orders faxed, invoices ready for the mail—he decided to skip the bus and walk home instead.

Soon he could skip the bus entirely: the salvage yard guy had a buddy with the transmission part George needed. The buddy was out of town, fishing somewhere one state over, but this time next week George would have his wheels again. No more bus.

Eighteen blocks was nothing to walk when you had the time. How long had it been since he’d had time to spare? Most days it was ‘lights out, lock up’ and lately, ‘run for the bus’. When he missed the early one he had to stand under the shelter and listen to the neighborhood gossip and sports scores and curses from the local madman. Walking would be a treat.

Down Williams Avenue, cross to Findlay, two streets to James and a straight run to his front yard. On Findlay George paused. Something had caught his eye. On the ground in the vacant lot, in the trash heap of plastic cups, rusted cans and newspaper confetti, was something catching the light, glinting and sparkling. He stepped onto the lot, carefully, avoiding broken glass and twists of metal—and dug under the fluttering plastic bags.

Broken not by accident, broken into so many small, jagged bits the blows must have been intentional, lay shards of black, grooved vinyl.

Old LPs. There’d been anger behind the hands or hammers that had smashed them. A few labels were still legible, bits of words he could make out—‘dream’, ‘chance’, L-O-V. “Love”, of course.

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Those old songs had been mostly about love. Love’s a manysplendored thing. What else could people sing about but love—the part of life from back in the day?

George remembered her: Phyllis—the girl with a name he never liked until he met Phyllis Grady.

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Earthbound J . P. S w a r t e l é - Wo o d

Janice kicked off her boots and wept. The garden was ruined. Hail, two days of hail. Was this the start of the end, the damned apocalypse her nutty neighbors had been predicting, preparing for?

No, she refused to credit that. What fell from the sky had better explanations, she was sure. No divine punishments. She did believe in divine blessings but they weren’t the work of the Big Guy with the Beard in the Sky. (That patriarchal crap she’d not given credence to since she was what, fourteen, fifteen? For starters, the divine dreamed up as God the Father, and then the Son, struck her as made in man’s image, not the other way round. It sure gave a leg up to the boys, easy then to sideline the girls.)

Her woolen socks were sodden. She ripped them off and flung them at the boots, strode to the kitchen window, her fury enough even to keep her feet warmed despite the cold tile floor and the wet of her feet.

Through the window she saw the vines a-tangle, the tomato stakes flattened, scattered in the debris like pick-up sticks, that game she used to play with Uncle John, who always let her win. She knew he let her win and he knew she knew, a kind of secret they shared, that they never spoke of but could laugh about.

How many years had he been gone, crazy Uncle John? Crazy he was— hang-gliding to start with after his boyhood years on motorcycling and midnight swims in the flooded quarry that no number of warnings and Keep Out signs kept him from. Hang-gliding led him to his last,

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great, passionate—oh, yes, joyful—risk-taking. She had heard his rapt voice speak the words: BASE-jumping.

The wild and bold friends he’d made along the way traveled days to reach the high cliffs, precipices above rivers, above canyons. Each in turn, having double- and triple-checked parachutes, would stand in position, intone some personal mantra or litany, or belly-yell a favorite song, and leap—far out, into the void. Of that manic group Uncle John was the first whose parachute failed. Broken in the gorge below, unrecognizable in a spatter of blood and bone.

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Photo By Suzanne Lapka

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The View from the Window D o r i s We i l

Carolyn lived on the fourth floor of an old building. The real estate agent who first showed her the apartment said “How lucky! You’re on the tree line.”

It was unusual to be in Manhattan and yet be able to live with the seasons.

Carolyn hated summer in New York and tried to escape it as much as possible. But when she couldn’t make it out of town the compensation was that the trees were in bloom and she would imagine that she was in a natural setting. That was until a siren started screaming down the street or some drunk from one of the nearby bars yelled an obscenity at 2:00 A.M. In the winter the branches were bare. There wasn’t a great view. A Catholic church and school were across the street. Carolyn would watch the children (all blond and middle class like a throwback to a Norman Rockwell poster) walk to school with their parents.

On Halloween they wore their costumes in a parade. In the spring they celebrated their first communion.

But though the school children were always the same age she was getting older. And she noticed that some of the branches on the trees had no leaves and the trunks appeared to be in distress.

“I hope that I go before the trees” she thought. It would be too sad to survive them.

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Photo By Doris Weil

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Life as a Fruit or C o n t e m p l at i o n o f a Snapple Bottle D o r i s We i l I could be an apple And end up as Snapple I’d live a short time But more than a lime The life of a fruit is crapple

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Where I’m From D o r i s We i l

I’m from my Viennese paternal grandparents whom I never knew because they perished in the camps.

I’m from my mother and grandmother who had to take Sarah as their middle name when the Nazis invaded Prague.

I’m from my maternal great grandfather who asked for a receipt when he turned in his radio, as all Jews were required to do, to the Gestapo.

I’m from my mother and her family who waited in Shanghai for an American visa.

I’m from my father who waited in Casablanca for an American visa.

I’m from parents who spoke with accents.

I’m from goulash and sauerbraten which embarrassed me because it was so different from the American food that my friends ate.

I’m from a refrigerator in which it was considered a sin to throw out food.

I’m from a house where you turned off the lights when you walked out of a room because electricity was expensive.

I’m from a home where my brother was not allowed to play with toy guns or toy soldiers.

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I’m from a family that did not take advantage of tax deductions because they were so grateful to be in America.

The wartime experiences are embedded in me as though I had experienced them myself.

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H e av y R a i n B e a t r i c e Wy e t z n e r

The sun was so strong that summer day, the streets were practically empty. People rushed form shady spot to shady spot. A few hearty souls gathered under the restaurant awning at the corner of Elm. It was very quiet, none spoke. Then there was a great clap of thunder.

It seemed to shake the city to its roots. “What the hell was that,” Jake asked to no one in particular. “Who the hell knows,” his snippy wife answered.

They waited and the rain came. It came down in dark, straight sheets, hitting the sidewalk and sending a heavy spray. The groups got talkative. How they would get home, they wondered.

Suddenly the restaurant door opened and Joe the owner looked at the damp crowd and smiled. “Coffee on the house,” he yelled.

Everyone trooped in and thanked Joe. This was an adventure worth telling the kids about. One older lady actually said it was the most fun she’d had in a long time.

All of them made new friends, it stopped raining and they had a story to tell. Mother Nature smiled, too.

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A u t u m n L e av e s Beatrice Wyetzn er

“It’s true,” Jane thought, “autumn is a season of endings.” The summer heat dissipates, the sun moves so there is more shade over our benches. And if you pay attention, you can watch the leaves of the various trees change their color before they gently glide down.

She loved the fall colors—orange, red, yellow, brown, even white.

John, sitting next to Jane, wondered what she was thinking. She was so silent. She didn’t seem angry with him, even though he had just announced his plans to move out of their apartment.

Finally, he spoke, trying to reassure her that it was his fault, not hers, that he was going. He wondered if she understood. She heard him, but she didn’t speak. “Let him go,” she thought. She understood John, but she wouldn’t tell him.

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Going...Going...Almost Gone A l l a n Ya s h i n

Oh, I see them, I see them!

Shh! You’ll scare them…don’t make a sound.

Look at them, they’re so adorable.

I’m thrilled that they’ve been found.

Huddled together in the Sheep Meadow.

Right here in Central Park.

It’s the last vestige of them.

Makes me think of Noah’s Ark. They’re the survivors of a calamity One that’s spared only the last few.

Forced to flee their natural habitat There was nothing else that they could do.

Now they’re on the brink of extinction And isn’t that a great pity!

Look at them before they vanish It’s the Lost Middle-Class Tribe of New York City.

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Photo by Suzanne Lapka

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It ’s N ot Wh er e I’m Fro m A l l a n Ya s h i n

It’s not where I’m from But where I’m goin’.

It’s not those long ago planted seeds But what I’m sowin’.

Not lookin’ behind or glancin’ over my shoulder.

My hair may be greyer but damned if I’m getting’ older.

Still travelin’ down the road toward a new horizon.

Keepin’ my options open.

Bein’ the wise one.

There’s a whole world out there Just for the takin’.

The future is limitless It’s mine for the makin’

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N a k e d N e w Yo r k A l l a n Ya s h i n

“Excuse me, can I help you? You’re looking at the map. You seem to be lost?”

“Help me? Help me? Yes…please, please.”

“Good, yes I will. So where would you like to go?”

“Go to place with naked people.”

“Naked people?”

“Yes, you know…no clothes. Naked we call it. What you call it?”

“Ah…well…we call it the same…”

“Good…then tell me where to find.”

“Well…there’s this bar that I know that has these girls---“ “No…no…no bar. Outside naked…in street naked.”

“Ohh! You must mean Times Square.”

“Yes, yes…want to see horseboy singing.”

“Horseboy? Oh, oh…you must mean cowboy…the Naked Cowboy.

Yes…he’s in Times Square alright. But you know, he’s not really naked.”

“What! What you say?!?”

“They wouldn’t allow him to be totally naked, so he has to wear a pair of briefs.”

“Briefs??”

“Yes, yes…underwear…shorts…you know…”

“Oh…you mean pujabees.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“I no come to Times Square to see men in pujabees! I see that at home…everywhere.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but---“ “Naked girls in Times Square? You have that?”

“Actually, there are some women who take off their tops and paint

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themselves so that it looks like---“ “Paint on bodies? I spend fifteen hours on airplane to see paint on bodies?? I can see home…everywhere.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s the law here in New York City. But you know there are lots of great shows you can go to in Times Square…Wicked…Fiddler on the Roof…Phantom of the Opera…”

“They have naked peoples?”

“Ah, no, no they don’t. But there’s great singing and dancing and---“ “Fifteen hours sitting on plane with sore tu-tu to see sing and dance?!? I can see at home…everywhere.”

“So…then I suppose you’re looking for something you can’t get at home.”

“Yes, yes…can you please help me find Katz’s Deli?”

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Photo by Barbara Zapson

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Pa n d o r a’ s P i c t u r e Barbara Zapson

Looking through the old photo albums that were her mother and father’s, Pandora came across a picture from the early 20’s.

At first, the two little girls weren’t recognized, though their features were quite clear and familiar. The girls were somewhere between four and six years old, and obviously very close in age. They were sitting on a stoop with a collie dog, and it immediately clicked in Pandora’s mind when she saw the dog…that must be “Beauty”, the collie that her mother had spoken of so fondly over the years.

Then Pandora recognized the stoop from her own early Bronx childhood, as the one adjacent to her beloved grandpa’s tailor shop.

The clothes the girls were wearing were undoubtedly made by hand and with much love. Pandora then realized that this must be her mother and her mother’s younger sister, the youngest two of the nine siblings in the Rothstein family.

Oh the clothes! It must have been winter or fall, as the girls’ coats had fur-trimmed hoods and cuffs (no faux fur in the 20’s!), and very large decorative buttons down the front. From the picture, they seemed to be made of something like mother-of-pearl, as they glistened in the daylight. Pandora knew that grandpa made all their clothes, and her mother was, indeed, his favorite child.

Pandora made copies of the picture and sent them to family members, saving the original to show to her 96 year old mother. She mailed one to her aunt who was in the picture, and now resided in Florida. Not only were they the youngest in the family, they were the only ones left. Then she remembered: her mother had dementia and

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didn’t even know who Pandora or Pandora’s sister were. What would she make of this 90+ year old picture? “Oh well”, Pandora thought, “it will give us something to talk about on my next visit to my mother”.

As usual, Pandora’s mother asked who she was, not recognizing her at all. But when Pandora showed her mother the picture, she studied it intently for a moment. Then she smiled and, as if a light went off in her head, she said quietly: “That’s Beauty, my dog” (it was like some kind of breakthrough!). Then she asked: “but who are the little girls with her?”.

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Ref l ec tio ns in a Ph oto Barbara Zapson

Eyes – not brown, not blue Staring into my own, piercing deep into my soul Little fingers stroking my cheek Little cheeks blushing pink My grandson, my love, my heart Never shall we part

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Photo By Barbara Zapson

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T h e M o s t U n f o r g e t ta b l e Character I’ve Known Barbara Zapson

Mildred Gasster, number three of nine children, was the most unforgettable character I’ve ever known. She had to quit school after 8th grade to help support the members of her family, something she always resented.

As a young woman, she worked for Ma Bell as an operator, and affected a nasal twang, as operators were wont to do. She kept this manner of speaking for all of her 90 something years, and also suffered delusions of grandeur (her given name was Molly). The reason nobody knew exactly how old she was when she died is because nobody knew exactly when she was born! Mildred Gasster had three birth certificates, including one for Christmas Day. Her best friend was the Mother Superior of an upstate convent, and Mildred, herself, claimed to be “ecumenical” and celebrated ALL holidays. She also claimed to be kosher because she “didn’t eat pork”, though her favorite diner sandwich was either a BLT or ham and cheese. Nobody could convince her that bacon or ham were pork because…”they were so delicious”.

Mildred (never Milly or Molly) was about 20 when she met a stunningly handsome, mustachioed Marine, Mac. Mac was 6’4” to Mildred’s 5’, and for their wedding pictures, she had to stand on a milk crate, to fit into the same frame.

After the Marines, Mac enlisted in the Army, as the Second World War had recently begun. What a stunning couple they made! Mac was based in California for a few years, and those were the happiest days of their marriage. Mildred always dressed impeccably, had her

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hair and nails done weekly, wore beautiful, fashionable clothes and had perfect makeup. Of course, she was the first in the neighborhood to wear Carmen Miranda style wedgies, and her hair was bleached Lana Turner blonde. She danced like Ginger Rogers.

When they got back to New York, they wanted badly to have children but, unfortunately, that never happened. So she obtained a good “front office” job, where her fashion sense and demeanor would be appreciated. Mildred worked for the illustrious, world-famous Bachrach Studios and, as she put it in her nasal twang, they were “photographers of kings, queens, movie stars and my nieces and nephews”! In fact, all of her spare time, weekends and holidays were devoted to about six of her 12 nieces and nephews, all of whom loved her dearly. While her brothers were too old for the draft, most of her sister’s husbands had been drafted into the Army.

Their wives (Mildred’s six sisters) received small “allotment checks” from the government, so Mildred felt it was her duty to take care of the nieces and nephews as she had their mothers, being the second eldest sister. In all honesty, she wasn’t so much taking care of them as she was having fun with the kids. She took them to see movies and stage shows at the Roxy and Radio City Music Hall, and to eat in Lindy’s on Broadway. She took them to the best hotel in Manhattan, The Plaza, Pierre and Waldorf, to use the bathrooms. NOTHING was too good for them in her eyes! She always dressed exotically on those occasions, and carried a large hat-box with sweaters and tissues and candy for the kids. Mildred was quite a sight, walking into a restaurant wearing a turban and carrying her hatbox, with six kids trailing behind her. Everyone thought she was a movie star or, at the very least, a person of some importance. She was, in fact, to the kids accompanying her. These children were delightfully spoiled by Aunt Mil and Uncle Mac, and adoringly called her “Auntie Mame”, after the movie.

When most of the sisters moved from the Bronx to Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village, of course Mil and Mac went too. Though the rents were higher, she insisted on living in “Petah Cooper”, because she liked the address better!

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When Mac passed away, the synagogue service was packed with Mildred’s sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews, their children, friends of Mildred and Mac and even friends of the nieces and nephews. Everyone knew Auntie Mame, and came to pay their respects. Now, with the nieces and nephews all grown, Mildred threw herself into “bringing up” her great nieces and nephews. She taught them how to cook, baked cookies with them and took them to the parks and playgrounds. She never saved much money and was now living on Social Security, so she could no longer afford the expensive theaters and restaurants. Besides, (as she reasoned to herself) the Roxy was gone, Lindy’s was gone, so what’s the point? But somehow, she did manage to take her first great-nephew, Michael, to see an “R” rated movie that she said she thought “was a Disney Movie!” Michael was four years old at the time, and while he may not remember, his mother will never forget. He came home and told her the movie’s story in great detail!

She’s gone now, but certainly not forgotten. The four year old boy now has two sons of his own, who Mildred adored. He named one son Matthew for Mac, and named his boat “The M&M” for Mildred and Mac. His brother, Dan, named his daughter for Auntie Mame. I think of her every day, when I pass 4 “Petah” Cooper Road, or wear some of her costume jewelry, for which she was mugged twice as she strolled Park Avenue. Three generations of her family were lucky enough to have Auntie Mame as their G-d Mother, as the one to run to when their parents were “unfair”. She couldn’t have been more loved had she had her own children, and she never will be forgotten.

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The Infir mary Barbara Zapson

Holly was a very busy working mother of three young boys, who were always getting into some kind of mischief. As with most young wives of the 60’s, she had most of the responsibilities of home, shopping, cooking, cleaning, after school activities, doctor’s appointments and discipline of the children. Her husband thought his sole responsibility was his 9 to 3 job, and expected a hot meal on the table promptly at 6 pm (she got home from work at 5:30!)

Holly learned to be inventive and became a great multi-tasker.

Saturdays, she spent shopping the sales for food and/or boys’ clothing, and Sundays, she cooked all day, separating 5 portions of each dish into freezable Corning Ware. That way, when she got home at 5:30, all she had to do was pop a dish from the freezer into the oven, while her “lord and master” sat on the porch drinking beer.

Splinters seemed to be a constant plague in little fingers, and caused much anxiety in the boys. So Holly invented a “Splinter Remover Machine”! She took a short candle, dripped Crayola Crayons and glitter on it, and when it hardened and dried, stuck a sewing needle, point side up, into the candle. She now had a “Splinter Remover Machine”, and all the kids in the neighborhood heard about it from her proud sons, who swore it didn’t hurt! And so, in addition to all her other chores, Holly now had the one and only Splinter Infirmary in the neighborhood, with a constant stream of little patients!

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Acknowledgements

We share our belief that the world is a better place when everyone’s voice is listened to and respected.

Many thanks go to our foundation, government, and corporate supporters, without whom this writing community and publication would not exist: Allianz GI, Amazon Literary Partnership, Emmanuel Baptist Church Benevolence Fund, Kalliopeia Foundation, Meringoff Family Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, The New York City Department of Cultural Affairs. NYWC programming is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

We rely heavily on the support of individual NYWC members and attendees of our annual Write-A-Thon. In addition, members of our Board of Directors have kept this vital, rewarding work going year after year: Timothy Ballenger, Jonas Blank, Tamiko Beyer, Louise Crawford, Jenni Dickson, Atiba Edwards, Marian Fontana, Ben Groom, and NYWC Founder and Executive Director Aaron Zimmerman. Lastly, we would also like to thank Julie GayerKris at the 14th Street Y, for helping to make this workshop possible.

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NY Writers Coalition Inc. (NYWC) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization that creates opportunities for formerly voiceless members of society to be heard through the art of writing.

One of the largest community-based writing organizations in the country, we provide free, unique, and powerful creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society, including at-risk, disconnected, and LGBT youth, homeless and formerly homeless people, those who are incarcerated and formerly incarcerated individuals, war veterans, people living with disabilities, cancer, and other major illnesses, immigrants, seniors, and many others.

For more information about NYWC programs and NY Writers Coalition Press publications visit www.nywriterscoalition.org

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